


Tangerine 'verse: Aramis and the Fairies

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Tangerine 'verse [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 02:53:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10179080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Aramis needs to renegotiate his place as go between with the fairies. He also has to work with someone he would rather not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> beta read by the marvelous Vatican Cameos :) Much appreciated as always, remaining mistakes are my own.

No, no no no, no. No way, nope.

 

“No,” Aramis says, thoughts coalescing. Athos opens his mouth. “No, Athos!”

 

“This is your job, you do it or you get fired,” Athos snaps, cross without his coffee, Porthos not arrived to calm him or find excellent coffee yet. 

 

“I am not working with her, it must be a conflict of interest or something,” Aramis says. 

 

“You’re going to be late,” Athos says, unimpressed. “I can, of course, assign you elsewhere if you really are going to make such a fuss about this, but the only other case we have right now is a request for a consult, and that would mean working with Adele Bessette.”

 

Aramis snatches the large box-file off Athos' desk and stalks out. He’s not late, but he is a little tardy, and most of the rest of the team is in the briefing room. It’s actually one of the Supernatural Intelligence teams’ office, open plan with cubicles. There are chairs ranged, but a lot of people are sat at or on their desks. Marguerite is leaning near the door. She gives him an unimpressed once over then turns her nose up. Aramis throws himself into a chair next to DS Amyot and thunks the box-file onto Amyot’s desk. 

 

“Morning,” Amyot says. “There’s coffee, cheer you up a bit. It’s decent too.”

 

Aramis gets up and makes himself a mug with too much sugar, and then slumps next to Amyot, trying to avoid Marguerite’s death glares. Amyot notices and nudges Aramis, amused. Aramis nudges back with a fair bit of force, but it just makes Amyot laugh. 

 

“Right, let’s get this going,” Anne says, getting up at the front. 

 

She’s avoiding Aramis' eyes, looking all around the room but at him. Aramis slumps further into his chair and vows to stop dating people he works with. He and Amyot get along alright, but Amyot was never much more than a drunken night after officer safety training up at Hendon, so he never had a leg to stand on, getting grieved. He hadn’t got grieved, either. Aramis shakes himself off and gets up to brief everyone on his progress with the fairies. 

 

This is, according to Athos, a team of people to help facilitate his negotiations. To Aramis it looks like a ‘you’re not working fast enough’ team of people to cut corners. As such, he makes sure his briefing is as thorough and in depth as he can. He’s only just getting into his stride when Marguerite interrupts. She puts her hand up, then when he ignores her she clears her throat and starts talking, so he has no choice but to stop. 

 

“Everyone in this room has education to at least Masters level, most of us have PhDs, and we all either work regularly with fairies, or did before your… indiscretion, or we’ve studied fairy law and culture. So stop with the background lecture and tell us where you currently stand,” Marguerite says. 

 

“Indiscretion,” Aramis says. “To begin with, I lost favour because they saved my life, not because I did anything. Which is pertinent, I’m not just starting an argument. One of the problems I’ve been having, and we always have dealing with them, is that the way they perceive cause and effect, and therefore choice and determination active versus passive, is incomprehensible to us. They don’t have linear time, From where I stand, they chose to heal me, they were the active participant. I used up my favour with them in that act, even though to me I was a passive participant. That’s not how they see it. According to Pin, there’s no explanation that makes sense in linear time, but basically I was the active.”

 

“Keep in mind, please, that DI d’Herblay’s position as go-between was informal previously. We’re not simply negotiating to re-establish relations, we want to formalise them,” Anne says. 

 

“I’ll skip the background and history lecture,” Aramis says. “I will, however, type up my notes and add it to the case file on the system, and I’d appreciate you looking through and seeing if your understanding matches. If there’s anything to add, or something you think is incorrect, great. For now. We’re dealing with their municipal court, not the queen’s court, so that’s a bonus.”

 

“We’re all highly educated and all that flummery, but I did it all at undergrad and frankly I can’t remember the divisions in their courts system. There were so many of the fucking things,” Amyot says. 

 

There’s a stir of disapproval. There’s a contingent of mundane street cops, but most of the people in the room are DI rank or higher, and there’s a couple who are Special Branch, some who hold administrative or political positions. Amyot, a beat cop for thirty years before stepping up to SI without bothering about becoming a detective, riding his Psychic Ability, is definitely not fitting into their ‘good negotiator’ box. Aramis smiles widely and Amyot raises his coffee mug a nudge in a subtle salute. 

 

“There are twelve court systems,” Aramis says. “Queen’s is the highest that deals with ‘mortal matters’. With us, in other words. There are five above that, we have an inkling that one is to do with elemental magic, but other than that we don’t know. Below the Queen’s there are another six that deal with us, two of which are municipal and dependant on whichever city is involved. One is legal, one is to deal with Changelings. We want to have a good relationship with both. The other four deal with adults, and matters of consent go to the municipal legal courts, so we don’t need to get involved. The Supernatural Relations Department at Whitehall bothers with that tangle.”

 

“Who’s on the thingy for the court?” Amyot says. 

 

“It’s in the file,” Marguerite says, flipping through her folder. Aramis glances at his box-file feeling a little smug. His is fatter. “Pin, Mabh, and the Gancanagh, those are the three we know. How many are there?”

 

“No idea,” Aramis says. “They haven’t let me talk to the entire Seat yet. That’s what I’m working on. I’ve mostly been talking to Pin, Mabh is either bored or angry with me and the Gancanagh is currently refusing to talk unless I bring Porthos. Actually, Porthos is proving to be what they all want.”

 

“We can’t just give him over?” a woman in a very expensive suit says. Specials, Aramis thinks. She’s grinning. “Vallon always struck me as terribly diplomatic and charming.”

 

There’s a ripple of laughter, which Aramis thinks is a little unfair. Sure, Porthos is straightforward and upfront, and ridiculously honest, and he might be a rush-in kind of person but that’s for fun. He’s sensible when he needs to be. 

 

“Every one of you in this room knows and likes Porthos,” Marguerite says. “So clearly there’s more to diplomacy than superficial politeness and over the top manners.”

 

When she’s done speaking her thin, pale cheeks go a bright red, and she tilts her head so her hair falls across, hiding her. Aramis watches, fascinated, then pulls himself away. He already did that, and it ended badly for both of them. People liking Porthos is no good reason to tilt entire world-views. Aramis twitches and looks back at the suited woman, who looks suitably put in her place. 

 

“Porthos' ability to establish relationships in general aside, the fairies don’t want him to negotiate. The Gancanagh wants him to play with, Pin wants him to study because they know as little about Brights as we do, Mabh just wants whatever he took. We can’t ‘just’ give them Porthos firstly because there’s never a ‘just’ with the fairies, and secondly, it would do us no good. Unless we gave him as a gift, and we do not give people as gifts. Human beings are not commodities,” Aramis says, repeating the reasons Porthos has given him over and over for not letting the fairies have the people they want. He can see the suited woman opening her mouth. “I know that isn’t what you meant, but it is what they mean.”

 

“I apologise, I was making a joke at Vallon’s expense,” the woman says. 

 

Aramis decides Porthos probably knows her by more than reputation, and takes a second, longer look. She’s mid-height, Athos rather than him or d’Artagnan, rounded features, hair straightened and pulled back. Aramis checks his box-file and finds the team make up, and identifies her through elimination as sergeant Simone Pepin, and he was right about Specials. It’s vague about who she works with. He identifies the woman with her as Jeanne Bertrand, no rank, and wonders if she’s related to their sergeant of the same name. 

 

“If we can’t give them Porthos, what is our approach?” Amyot asks, clearly bored by precedings. 

 

“No idea,” Aramis says. “That’s what you lot are for. My only suggestion is street intelligence, which I would very much like to pass of on Amyot.”

 

“If you get Vallon to get on with Levesque, I’ll do it,” Amyot says, giving his nudge of a salute again. 

 

“Ever tried to get him to do something he doesn’t want to?” Aramis grumbles. 

 

“I have,” Anne says, with her sweet innocent wholly deceiving smile. “I’ll make sure he prioritises it.”

 

“Roust out the magical folks and get info on fairies. Got it. Sounds like some seventies raid on a gay bar,” Amyot says. 

 

“Magic. We can’t use it, but we might be able to offer it. For reasons I don’t think we understand, I’ve found nothing about it anywhere anyway, the fairies don’t like to do their own experimenting with spell-fusion,” Anne says. 

 

“My specialty,” Marguerite says. “That’ll be me, then.”

 

“I have a suggestion,” Jeanne Bertrand says. “Which includes assessing what your continued presence in negotiations would mean for the Metropolitan Police Service. And using some of the Whitehall resources Simone has access to, especially when it comes to negotiation.”

 

Threat assessment, Aramis thinks, frowning. Anne gets up to okay that and assign actions to various people and teams. Aramis is handed three slim folders with his own actions, none of which, he notices, includes interacting with the fairies. He waits for the room to empty, then turns on Anne. 

 

“Not until we know more,” Anne says, before he can open his mouth. “I’ve been asked to allow a threat assessment, and I don’t think it’s a bad idea. Grit, can you be a love and get coffees on your way to my office?”

 

Marguerite nods and hurries off. Aramis scowls after her retreating back, and Anne hits his shoulder. 

 

“Why does she need to be-” Aramis starts. 

 

“Not only is fused magic her specialty,” Anne says, “which gives us a bargaining chip you have been neglecting, but she’s also an integral part of the AMMP team.”

 

“AMMP.”

 

“I’m instigating Musketeers training to teach you idiots about the Supernatural Unit,” Anne mutters, then sighs. “Ability Manifestation and Magical Peoples. The team has a negotiating and liaising function within Whitehall and the community, and-”

 

Aramis waves away the explanation. He has enough. He’s bored. He looks around, then gives Anne a little wave and ducks out before she can keep him there for more conversations about bits of police work he doesn’t give a damn about. He dashed to the lift and escapes. He heads for the canteen for a breakfast roll, then back up to the office. Athos is still there, doing paperwork, and Porthos has appeared on the scene at long last. It’s nearly twelve, and this is the first Aramis has seen of him today. He’s curled on the window seat, asleep. Athos catches Aramis' amusement. 

 

“He’s exhausted,” Athos whispers, frowning in Porthos' direction. 

 

Athos is still a little over-protective of Porthos, so Aramis doesn’t think much of that or worry about it. Athos' ‘exhausted’ is probably most people’s ‘a little tired’. Porthos stopped fainting from tiredness ages ago. Aramis dumps the box-file and sets about typing up his notes on history and background. He adds his reports and other files on the fairies to the system Anne’s set up for the brand new fairy team. They are apparently called BRIC- Better Relations In the Community. Aramis laughs at that. The Sidhe are hardly ‘the community’. More like an entire country within Britain’s borders. The French don’t have Sidhe. Just Britain. And Ireland, Aramis supposes, though he’s never actually checked. 

 

“I’m sure Porthos is fine,” Aramis says. “He’s going to have to get on with the Levesque case, so he better be.”

 

Athos is still in a bit of a temper, Aramis realises just a little bit too late. Athos checks his actions for the BRIC team, then makes him go talk to Adele Bessette about whatever case she wants a consult on. It’s not that Aramis doesn’t like Adele. He does. He hasn’t even dated her, so that’s not the problem either. It’s just that she’s very, very beautiful, and very, very warm, and very, very… Aramis just likes her, and she lets him flirt, and smiles at him, and actually likes him. Which isn’t as familiar a thing as he pretends. And is something he feels sorely in need of, after Marguerite’s clear dislike, and Athos’s temper. He holds that he was born in the wrong era, Milady holds that he’s a misogynist pig, Athos says it’s somewhere between the two and tells them both to shut up. 

 

“Aramis! I was hoping Athos would send you. I love Porthos, but he’s far too lazy for this,” Adele says, when Aramis slips across to the mundane side of the building and into the Murder Team’s office. 

 

“I aim only to please,” Aramis says, taking off an imaginary hat and bowing. He feels rather silly, and flushes as he straightens. “Athos hasn’t actually told me much, and I haven’t had a chance to look at the file, I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

 

“Good. That gives us an excuse to skip out to the pub, come on. My DI is off sick today, so we don’t need to be sneaky about it,” Adele says, taking his elbow. 

 

The closest pub is full of coppers on a beer break. Adele is greeted by more than one, but the SU tends not to be quite as alcoholic, due mostly to interaction with spells, so Aramis isn’t. He recognises two PCs, but only vaguely. He offers to pay for Adele, but she just laughs and passes over a crisp twenty that covers her cider and his orange juice. He’s feeling quite her creature by the time they make it to a table at the back, and very pleased about that.

 

“Murder by kitchen scissors,” Adele says. “A bloke gets home, and his wife stabs him with the scissors she used earlier in the day to cut her child’s hair. She doesn’t remember anything, swears to everything that it wasn’t her.”

 

“Sounds psychological so far, not magical,” Aramis says. 

 

“Yes, but I’m not stupid enough to bring you something psychological, am I? So hush yourself.”

 

“I’ll rephrase,” Aramis says. “What makes it magical?”

 

“Better. Her manner. She’s not in any kind of shock, she’s calm and collected and very down to earth. I know personality is hardly enough, you never know. I’ve talked to her friends and family, though, and there’s zero history, zilch. No emotional instability, nothing with pets, no voiced or unvoiced problems in the marriage, no violence, no temper problems. She’s the one who called it in, about ten minutes after. Says she came across his body coming down from having a shower.”

 

“Still not seeing the magic,” Aramis says. 

 

“There never is much evidence of magic when it’s to do with mental fiddling, is there?” Adele says. “Not without looking for magical evidence. Which is what you’re here for. It’s weird.”

 

Aramis meets the woman, finds nothing but a gap in her memory, and then has a look at the crime scene. He’s about to tell Adele it’s entirely mundane, but then he decides to humour her. He has one of Porthos' jerry-rigged gadgets, an ipod with extra bits. It’s supposed to pick up charges, which it communicates via the volume of the music played. There’s a faint one in the kitchen, and nothing anywhere else. Aramis walks over the entire house, then returns to the kitchen. The soft ‘Tom Waits’ song that had played before is suddenly blasted out at him, and he turns in time to see Adele come at him. He’s lucky there weren’t any scissors for her to grab, Porthos tells him later. Aramis doesn’t feel very lucky when he wrestles Adele to the floor and into handcuffs, Tom Waits shouting at him to hold on, hold on, just hold on. 

 

Adele is perfectly content, once Tom Waits quiets back to a soft hum. Aramis leaves her cuffed to the chair and calls Athos for backup, and by the time he’s made his phone call Adele is telling him ‘told you so’. Aramis takes the cuffs off and they sit in the livingroom to wait, the ipod silent between them but still on, still checking. Adele is making notes for a report, and Aramis is googling research into imprints, ghosts, and possession, but they’re both paying a lot of attention to the ipod, listening for Tom Waits. 

 

“Hullo,” Porthos says, sticking his head in the door, making them both jump. He grins. “You left the front open.”

 

“Why Tom Waits?” Aramis complains, stowing his phone and tossing the ipod Porthos' way. 

 

“I like Tom,” Porthos says, catching the ipod easily. “Athos! Found ‘em!”

 

“We hadn’t lost them,” Athos says, still sounding cross. “Did you have to leave me to carry everything?”

 

Aramis watches Athos stagger toward the kitchen weighted down by a suitcase and a tube draped over his shoulders. Porthos snags the back of his jumper before he can step into the kitchen, and Aramis and Adele join them. 

 

“Let Aramis take it in,” Porthos says. “We know whatever it is doesn’t affect him.”

 

“I assume it’s only women,” Adele says. 

 

“That is the most obvious correlation between yourself and Mrs Murder with Scissors, but it’s not the only one, and seeing as you two are hardly a large pool, we’ll side with caution,” Porthos says. “My guess is some kind of imprint, but the action is really specific, so maybe with a side of possession.”

 

“Can Imprints possess people?” Athos asks. 

 

Aramis takes the suitcase into the kitchen. He opens it and finds a couple of books, a laptop, and a bunch of tape and string and a net of oranges. He opens the laptop, and finds it set up with a webpage, just an image of a music player. He sighs, sensing some kind of weird experiment. He has no idea what the tube is for.

 

“Me and Constance have been working on this since she got that musicality case,” Porthos says. “If you turn it on, just press play. It’s a playlist with a bit of a spell in the coding. Music, computer programming, and magic. It’s genius. Connie did most of the magic, obviously, I’m crap at that lot. It’ll help ID whatever your little scissor-lover is.”

 

Aramis presses play. Then, because he’s come across Porthos and Constance’s more experimental magic before, he gets out of the kitchen. It is, of course, a playlist of Tom Waits. Aramis rolls his eyes, but Porthos frowns. 

 

“You said the ipod played Tom, too?” he asks. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Definitely an imprint. Negative charge, pretty strong,” Porthos says. 

 

The songs start skipping to the next earlier and earlier in. Then it settles on ‘Hold On’. 

 

“That’s the song it played on the ipod,” Aramis says. 

 

“Awesome,” Porthos says. “That identifies the imprint, and… Ath, you can’t go in there, you’re likely to go scissors-mad.”

 

“Does the song tell you about it’s victims?” Adele asks. 

 

“Sometimes magic has agency and aim,” Athos says. “The spell Constance has used, I assume, is some kind of searcher, which will identify some of that. I don’t know what the songs mean. What is it we have in common?”

 

“You don’t wanna know right now,” Porthos says. Then he sighs. “I’ll tell you in a bit, when we want it here. First, how are we gonna get rid of it? How is it making people do things?”

 

“Oh!” Aramis says, pulling out his phone. “Research paper by General de Foix on torture and imprints. The repeated pattern builds agency, according to his thesis, and the strength of the emotion gives it ability to interact.”

 

“What database have you got?” Porthos says. “Never mind, use my phone, it’ll log onto the Bodleian SOLO database, which is comprehensive. Pull up the stuff from Nuremberg on phenomena at the camps.”

 

They decide, in the end, to use the same kind of spell used to help clear the imprints at the camps, called ‘release’ rather poetically. Porthos called Marguerite to fiddle with it until it’s got a narrower focus, giving her parametres from the laptop. Then they use pepper from the suitcase, scattering it over the linoleum, and play Tom Waits again, waiting for it to settle on ‘Hold On’. By the time it does, the pepper is stuck to a small area. Aramis marks it out with tape, and then the others step into the kitchen, except Adele. Porthos has his phone out, spell ready. 

 

“Are you going to tell me what I have in common with Adele?” Athos asks. 

 

“You already know,” Porthos says. 

 

Aramis frowns, trying to work that out. Athos looks at Adele, though, then nods, looking apologetic. 

 

“It’s still there, the imprint or the emotion,” Athos says. “Sorry. I haven’t got impeccable control, and you’re… feeling.”

 

“What am I feeling?” Adele asks. 

 

“Not any of our business,” Porthos mutters. “Alright, Ath, let’s see if it likes you.”

 

Athos steps away from the doorway, and the ipod, on the radiator in the hallway, contends with the laptop, and Athos comes for Aramis the same way Adele had. Then the music is gone, and Athos is stood in a heap of pepper, blinking. Aramis sneezes. 

 

“Is that it?” Adele says. 

 

“No,” Porthos says, a little grimly. “I wanna know who’s been torturing people.”

 

“For you, that’s it,” Athos says. “Your suspect will be passed to Supernatural Community liaisons, and will go through the courts with Supernatural mitigating circumstances.”

 

“Mit circs means she’ll probably get counselling, possibly an order for community observation, which basically means she’ll be stuck with a friend or family for a bit,” Aramis explains. “You did record this, Porthos?”

 

“Yeah, it’s all recorded. With our reports, and DS Basette’s initial assessment, it’s enough evidence of the imprint,” Porthos says. 

 

He and Aramis clear up, stowing things back in the suitcase. When they’re done, Porthos gathers Athos to him and takes suitcase and Athos back out to the car, leaving Aramis with Adele. They head to the pub again, and Aramis finds his resolve not to do anything with her, dating or other, crumbling. He had asked her out, once, but she’d been in a relationship then. He doesn’t know if she still is. He tries not to let himself wonder. 

 

“Will Vallon need to put into the report the stuff about what we all had in common? Us scissor-grabbers,” Adele asks, when she’s got a beer and a burger in front of her. 

 

“Yes,” Aramis says, picking at a salad. “It’ll be pertinent to the case. They’ll want to make sure it’s not coincidence, so they’ll check she fits the profile. Why?”

 

“I think the common factor might be something really personal,” Adele says. 

 

“Oh. Well, it’ll be a confidential file, and won’t be widely read, and the profile will be as wide as possible in order to be thorough. If there is one specific thing you and Athos have in common, it won’t be the only thing and no one will know exactly which it is from the list.”

 

Adele smiles, and gives Aramis half her burger. That buoys him up all the way back to the station, and her laughing before they part and giving him a hug just makes him happier. He’s whistling when he walks into the office, jubilant. He falters, though, on finding Porthos curled in the window, Athos hovering over him, one of the blankets that’s usually used to soften the bench wrapped around him. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Aramis asks. 

 

“He’s tired,” Athos mutters, fussing to tuck the blanket more firmly around Porthos. “I should send him home. He did more research on de Foix’s theory, though, and one of the things about possessive imprints, according to de Foix, is that the strong possessions are likely to come from ghosts. Ghosts don’t usually leave Phenomena, but apparently if you torture a Ghost, you can get Phenomena. Which is one of the things that have been happening around Levesque’s business, and Superintendent Royal came here to make sure Levesque gets priority, and now Porthos wants to nap and then get on with work. He won’t go home.”

 

Athos talks faster and faster, a frantic kind of energy pouring off him. Aramis rests a hand on his shoulder and gives calming him a go. He’s always been better with healing than manipulating emotions, though, and while Athos stills a little and his breathing evens, Aramis is almost certain that’s him, not his Ability. Aramis drops his hand, and nudges Athos aside so he can look over Porthos, instead. Where he might be able to be of some use. All he finds is tiredness, though, which he can’t heal or help. Feeling useless, he drops into the chair behind his desk. He idly looks through a bunch of emails from the BRIC team, a couple of additions to his history and notes, an email from Simone Pepin with a memo that she’s added a bunch of files from Whitehall’s SRD to the system, one from Marguerite requesting that he bumps one of his actions up his priorities list. Aramis ignores it all and emails Amyot. 

 

Amyot is a big man. He’s wide shouldered, with a gut, hair past his shoulders pulled back into a ponytail, features large. He fills their little office, sort of like Porthos does but more physically. He grins around and sidles over to Porthos, hands in his pockets. Athos looks on with concern and censure, but Aramis gives him a reassuring look, which stops him doing anything. Amyot taps Porthos on the shoulder with a file. 

 

“Oi, Vallon,” Amyot says. 

 

“Mm?” Porthos says, not bothering to sit up or even wake up properly.

 

“Checked your updates on Levesque.”

 

“I’m on it,” Porthos mutters, still not moving. 

 

“Yeah. I think we let it settle a few days. That imprint’s gonna be familiar to Levesque, can’t have him knowing we’ve made the connection. So no pushing.”

 

“‘s’your case,” Porthos concedes. “My recommendation is moving on it before the press gets the details on the murder, though.”

 

“I’m not having a years long operation falling apart because of haste. Caution is the game here. Do you know how much this kind of investigation costs?”

 

“I do op budgets for us,” Porthos says, opening one eye and glaring at Amyot. 

 

“Wasn’t calling you stupid,” Amyot says, holding up his hands. “You sure you want to push?”

 

Porthos sits up and rubs his face, actually considering it. Aramis and Athos watch with baited breath. Porthos finally shakes his head, to their relief. 

 

“Nah, you’re right. Let it settle, stick to our Aramis plan,” Porthos says. “Accumulate evidence, right?”

 

“Right,” Amyot says. “Got a file for you, bunch of stuff from SI on a couple of ghosts we think are involved.”

 

“Dump it on my desk,” Porthos says. “I’m going home today if we’re not pushing this.”

 

“Put it on mine if you want it actioned,” Athos says, now pretending to be deeply engaged his laptop. 

 

Amyot leaves the file on Porthos' desk and meanders back out. Porthos rubs at his face again, then snorts. 

 

“You two are machiavellian about your mother-henning,” he says. “If I’m going home, I’m gonna need a lift Ath, I can’t see straight I’m that tired.”

 

“But you’re fine,” Athos says, not looking up. “I’m busy.”

 

“You’re playing minesweeper,” Porthos says, getting up and gathering his things. “Come on, come home with me and snuggle. Not like we’ve got anything on, except Aramis with his fairies.”

 

Athos gathers a couple of files and shuts his laptop, pushing everything into his bag. Aramis waves them off, then has a look at his actions for BRIC. He lets his head rest on his desk with a groan. All he’s got is reading that’ll make his eyes bleed, interviewing a bunch of people who lived in Avalon for a bit which’ll just be to add to background info, and chasing down files. 

 

~*~

 

The next briefing is two days later, on Thursday. Aramis has spent most of the intervening time working on his PhD, doing research for a case Athos caught on Tuesday afternoon, and napping in the break room. He’s followed up on background, on files, done interviews, though, and he gives his information to Anne with no bitterness at all. The bitterness comes later, when he’s told he’s working with Marguerite.

 

“Can’t you just make up a spell?” he asks, sitting on her desk while she gathers things into a satchel shoulder bag thing. 

 

“No. Don’t you know how we create spells? You really don’t, do you? I suppose you rely on Porthos for that. We can’t just ‘make stuff up’, unless we want to end up with things beyond our control and understanding. I have two pieces of this spell, but there’s a third I need before I start trying things out. If it’s what I think, it’ll be enough to get you before the court. So let’s go get this, so we can stop being in one another’s company, hmm?”

 

Aramis nods, and trails after her, feeling a bit ineffectual and hurt. He pushes that aside and focuses on the case. He has the description of what they’re after, but he hasn’t had a chance to look. He unfolds the papers in the car, Marguerite driving. She’s at least better than Porthos, though not much slower. She has done the advanced driving course, though, Aramis can tell. He makes a mental note to remind Athos to sign Porthos up for those. Or maybe just driving lessons would be a good idea. They are, apparently, chasing down a book. 

 

“A book. All you need is a book?” Aramis asks. “I’m sure this is in Marsac’s library, I’ve seen Porthos reading it.”

 

“I need that specific edition. It belonged to a story teller, she made notes in the margins and the power of her stories is sort of… there,” Marguerite says. “It’s on the next page.”

 

“Why do I have to come with?” Aramis asks, flipping over to see a drawn out explanation of what Marguerite has just summarised. He skips it and goes to the last page, which answers his question. “Oh.”

 

Charon. Charon has the book. Aramis stuffs the papers into the door pocket and sighs, shimmying down his seat and slumping like a teenager. 

 

“I asked for Porthos, but he actually has use to people, so was busy,” Marguerite says. 

 

“Right. Thanks,” Aramis says, not letting that bother him. Porthos is a very useful person, it’s a compliment for Porthos. 

 

“We’re going to his old bookshop. You get him to come talk, but let me negotiate. I’m authorised to offer certain incentives for giving this up,” Marguerite says. 

 

“Right,” Aramis says again. 

 

Charon isn’t usually very hard to lure. He hangs around his bookshop, now mostly cleared since the fire but still not rebuilt. He also hates Aramis' guts, and likes coming to have a go. Aramis gets out of the car and walks up to the site. At least it’s easier now to walk across the cleared space. Last time he was here, to warn Charon away from Athos' funeral, there’d been debris everywhere. Aramis walks to the middle and sticks his hands in his pockets to wait. Marguerite settles beside him, and lights a cigarette.

 

“Didn’t know you smoked. Better hide that lighter,” Aramis says. 

 

“It’s an old habit I took back up after  _ somebody _ -” 

 

She’s cut off by the appearance of Charon. She sticks the lighter hurriedly into her bra, but keeps on smoking. Aramis wishes she’d put it out. If Charon gets annoyed he might use that. He likes fire, does Charon. He saunters around the corner, bringing with him a charge that smells like burnt electrics and hot damp. He comes to a stop near them, and looks around. 

 

“They’ve cleared up a bit,” Charon says. “Nice. I wonder when they’ll put my shop back up?”

 

“They’re not putting it back up,” Aramis says. “They’re putting up some flats, waiting on planning permission.”

 

“Oh no, I’ve put a stop to that. We’re getting my shop back, me and Flea and Porthos,” Charon says. 

 

“Thought you weren’t talking to Porthos, after he banned you from the funeral,” Aramis says. 

 

Marguerite's cigarette flares brighter, but she just waves her hand and quells it, carrying on smoking. 

 

“I don’t like her,” Charon says.

 

“Me either,” Aramis says, and Charon laughs, the same bitter, contemptuous laugh he used to level at Aramis when he was alive. 

 

“She’s suddenly growing on me, you know,” Charon says, sauntering around Marguerite, pushing her away from Aramis so he can get all the way around. Not that she was stood very close before. “You have good taste, to dislike the wanker, ma’am.”

 

“Thank you,” Marguerite says, putting out her cigarette. “I’m here to make a purchase.”

 

“Mm-hmm. What’s on offer?” Charon asks. 

 

“We’ll close the arson case on this place,” Marguerite says, smiling. 

 

“I’m dead, why do I care? They can’t put me in prison. Ghosts are exempt from the law unless they break it post-mortem,” Charon says. 

 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, hands bunched tight in his pockets. Porthos hasn’t done much recently, but Aramis knows that there are files in the bottom of Porthos' desk, and a notebook full of contacts, and a payment that goes out to a law firm every month. “He still thinks you didn’t do it.”

 

“I didn’t,” Charon says. “I’ll bite. What else? What’s this worth?”

 

“We’ll buy this piece of land,” Marguerite says. 

 

“Generous,” Charon says. “Alright. What am I giving?”

 

“Hans Christian Andersen, annotated by the Emilie Josette,” Marguerite says. 

 

Charon flickers, and Aramis has seen him set fire to too many things before and has his phone out for the fire brigade. No fire happens, though. Charon just flickers for a while, then vanishes. Aramis looks around, but he’s gone. He looks at Marguerite, who’s pulled out an old fashioned brick phone that looks like it’s been turned into one of Porthos' doohickeys. 

 

“He’s gone,” Marguerite says. “Don’t think by choice. Ever heard of a Ghost being summoned?”

 

“No, but they can be called. Usually by family. Only family Charon’s got alive is Porthos,” Aramis says, calling Porthos instead. Athos answers. “Is Charon with you?”

 

“Yeh, bit busy,” Athos says, sounding breathless. “Porthos! No, no! Shit. Ring you back.”

 

“Something’s going on,” Aramis says, already heading for the car. 

 

“Hang on wanker, I’ve got your book. I want this payment,” Charon says. 

 

Aramis turns back, and there he is, holding out a heavy book. Marguerite takes it and hands him a small USB and a netbook. Charon checks the USB has the agreement on, then pockets it. 

 

“What’s going on?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Nothing much,” Charon says, grinning. “Toodle pip.”

 

“Wait!” 

 

He’s gone, though, and Marguerite is pulling Aramis back to the car. She doesn’t even agree to drive him out to Porthos', after he admits he doesn’t even know if Athos and Porthos are there. Aramis has no choice but to sit in the car jittering as they get stuck in traffic heading back for the station. 

 

“He’s fine,” Marguerite says, at a traffic light, not looking at Aramis. “Athos would have said, if not. Even Charon would have, he always wants to help Porthos so if Porthos needed you, you’d know.”

 

Aramis nods, grateful for the assurance. He’d forgotten about Marguerite’s kindness. He’d forgotten about most of the thing she liked about her, really. Except for the way she looked in shorts that day at the barbecue. Athos rings back before Aramis can get too caught up in that. 

 

“Sorry about that,” Athos says, sounding highly amused and no longer stressed. “God, Porthos, would you stop?”

 

“What happened?” Aramis asks, still tense himself. 

 

“Just Goblin negotiations. Porthos gave them something, I have no idea what, but whatever it was, when they took it he lost it a bit. Started yelling, Charon showed up, there was chaos. Now he’s just sort of high. He says you’re to come and bring him peanut butter.”

 

“Yeah, okay. We’re stuck in traffic right now, when we get back I’ll head over.”

 

“I’ll drop you, if you know where you’re going,” Marguerite says, smiling at him. “Porthos good?”

 

“He’s fine apparently,” Aramis says. 

 

“Good. See? They didn’t need you haring about the place like a lunatic,” Marguerite says. 

 

Porthos and Athos are at the town house, with Ali and Treville. The Ghosts are sat at the kitchen table playing chess, Porthos is lying in the grass in the back garden, pupils blown wide, happy and rolling about. Athos is with him, trying to keep him from taking his clothes off when Aramis goes out. 

 

“Shirley’s hiding,” Porthos says. “Hello Aramis my absolute love!”

 

“Why are you high again?” Aramis asks, sitting cross legged by Porthos' head and getting an immediate lap full of him. 

 

“Thought they were trying to steal Charon,” Porthos grumbles, hand tight over Aramis' knee. “Not again, I said. But they weren’t, just taking what I offered. Pissed them off a bit. Did you bring peanut butter?”

 

“No, traffic was terrible and Marguerite needed to get back.”

 

“You were working with Grit? Good good.”

 

“She’s mean to me,” Aramis says, pouting. 

 

“Yeah, well, you deserve it. She’s not being very professional, but just ride it out, it’ll be fine,” Porthos says. “Mm. Your trousers are soft.”

 

“So what is going on?” Aramis asks Athos, petting Porthos' hair to make him melty and limp. 

 

“The Goblins wanted part of what Porthos took from the fairies. Ali and Treville didn’t want to do it, but Porthos said yes and offered it, and then there was the chaos. Last time the fairies tried to take it they took Charon and Flea instead, and Porthos decided not to risk it, and along comes Charon. Anyway, it got sorted. The Goblin promise with d’Artagnan is kaput, now we just have a regular human contract with them. They get to live in the basement and we deliver peanut butter, in payment for their healing Porthos.”

 

“Mmm. I love peanut butter,” Porthos mumbles, wriggling out of his trousers. Athos tugs them back up and buttons and zips him into them. Porthos just giggles.

 

“When did he undo them?” Aramis asks. 

 

“I’m sneaky,” Porthos says. 

 

“No naked in the garden, you have to go to bed to be naked,” Athos says. 

 

“Coming with?” Porthos asks, sitting up, face lit with enthusiasm.

 

“No, I’m going back to work,” Athos says. “So is Aramis.”

 

Porthos flumps back down into Aramis' lap with a groan. 

 

“You know that I could get you back in the good books of the fairies,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yes, yes, I know you like involving yourself, just leave it.”

 

“No, I mean it. On your terms.”

 

“Fine, tell me your mad scheme.”

 

“You could promise them that I’ll return what I took, now” Porthos says. 

 

“Why?” Aramis says. “Why did you take it? What is it? Why give it back now?”

 

“It was so lovely and shiney,” Porthos says, with a huge gusting sigh.

 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, then laughs. “You’re terrible!”

 

“I know,” Porthos says. “But they were trying to cheat!”

 

“God, you total arse! Alright, alright. I’ll have you give it them back. I do it my way, though. I’m not lying to them, even by omission. They get it back with the understanding that you’ve mangled it.”

 

“I didn’t mangle it, I just dismantled it and made sure they couldn’t...” Porthos trails off with a hum, giving up on explaining. “Naked.”

 

Athos manages to get him upstairs before he gets naked and falls asleep, then he drives himself and Aramis back to work and Aramis spends the afternoon doing research for the BRIC investigation and entering the interviews he did yesterday into the system. 

 

~*~

“Porthos got anything new on Levesque for me?” Amyot asks, later the next week, wandering into the office.

 

Aramis looks up from his cards. He and Athos are playing gin rummy with d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan takes advantage of their distraction to sort through the cast off pile. He wanted to see what’s in it, to decide whether to pick up the whole thing or not, but Athos had said no. Aramis pretends not to see. Athos probably honestly doesn’t see, because he’s looking towards his desk, which is behind him. He gets up and goes to shuffle some folders. 

 

“He’s out right now,” Athos says. “He took a couple of the files you left, so I assume he’s following it up. He went out with Kit from Ghostbusters, so I’m not sure of that, though.”

 

“Never mind, actually came for Aramis. I put it into the system, but I dug up a load of stuff for you, for the BRIC thing,” Amyot says. 

 

“Is it lots of boring reports and interviews?” Aramis says. 

 

“I can read it if you like,” d’Artagnan says, and Aramis narrows his eyes and examines the discard pile. Sure enough, the three of hearts that was two down has gone. He weighs the difference between d’Art cheating at cards with d’Art doing his work so he can nap, and decides to let the three go. 

 

“I’ll talk you through it, if you deal me in,” Amyot says, coming further in and drawing up a chair. 

 

“You took the three,” Aramis says, grinning. Amyot’s is a better offer. 

 

d’Artagnan puts it back with a sigh, and then perks up and tosses his cards onto the desk, realising they’re gonna have to start again to deal Amyot in. Amyot waits until he has coffee and cards before he gets started.

 

“I’ve been digging around what they could want. I know ultimately they want Porthos, in various ways, but to get us before them to negotiate that, we need to get them to convene the municipal court, right? Which means finding out who’s on the Seat, and what their negotiating position is. I have a couple of Sidhe contacts, and one or two whose information is a bit hit and miss but have ties with the courts,” Amyot says, and picks up the ten of spades d’Artagnan just put down. “Ohh, yes! Thank you, d’Artagnan.”

 

“Damn it,” d’Artagnan grumbles, drooping sadly over his hand. He’s an adorably expressive card player. Aramis takes a discrete photo and sends it to Constance. It’s always good to get her on-side, and cute pictures of d’Art are the best way to do that at the moment. He gets hearts back, so clearly it’s a good one. 

 

“You’re right about Pin and Mabh, but the Gancanagh isn’t. There are ten, and of the other eight, only two are senior or important figures. It’s like jury service, the other six are drawn from general citizens, or whatever they have in Avalon,” Amyot says. “So I can’t get you much on them. The two I can name are Elvin and Catkin.”

 

“I don’t know Elvin. Porthos has met Catkin, they hate him a lot. I think they were part of the queen’s court, when I was taken,” Aramis says. 

 

“That should make our job MUCH easier,” Amyot says, with a groan. Then he grins. “Gin, by the way.”

 

“Fuck you,” Athos says, laying out his hand. Far too much royalty. Athos is terrible at cards. He’s too used to playing with Porthos, who cheats, and who often cheats for Athos when he gets bored of cheating for himself. They deal again, after adding up scores (Athos is not winning). 

 

“One of my more iffy contacts thinks that the fairies want a particular book,” Amyot says. “But I think they’ve misunderstood something, because they don’t read stories, they tell them or listen to them, right? That’s in your background info on the system.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Aramis says, reorganising his cards. “One of the reasons they prefer to take bastardised spells, instead of making them. Text is a component in creating spells according to Porthos, who got it from Marguerite.”

 

“Maybe it’s a spell they want, in that case,” Amyot says.

 

“Was the book Hans Christian Andersen?” Aramis says, brain clicking into gear, finally. 

 

“I don’t think it was named,” Amyot says. “My contact is an addict. Of lemons, but he’s half goblin, so it actually is sort of like being a heroin addict.”

 

“I think Marguerite might have something we can bargain with, in that case,” Aramis says. “We can use her spell to get the court to see our negotiator.”

 

“I have some stuff on that, too,” Amyot says, taking d’Artagnan’s discard for the third time. Mostly, Aramis is pretty sure, to psych d’Artagnan out. Amyot’s one of the guys who likes teasing d’Art a lot. “I think you should be there. I know that you’re technically out of favour, but I think that might just be for bargaining position. All the intel says that they still like you. They like d’Artagnan, too, but I don’t think - you’re not educated in fairy lore or law, are you, kid?”

 

“I’m not a kid,” d’Artagnan says. “Stop picking up my cards. They’re not for you. No, I am in no way qualified to liaise with fairies.”

 

“And besides, I think there’s something about you that makes what you give, your objects, somehow important. Because you were taken, maybe, I don’t know,” Amyot says, shrugging, draining his mug. “Any chance of a refill?”

 

“No,” Athos says. “One and one only, that’s-”

 

“I brought extra,” Porthos says, coming in, a bag of crisps between his teeth and a holder of five take-out coffees in his hands. He sets everything on the desk among the cards, then flops down in the chair next to d’Artagnan. It’s the broken one and creaks ominously, but holds. “Your guys said you were up here, when I went to drop off your files. I updated them, did what you asked. You’re right - the Kings are not at all happy about it, but one of them is working with Levesque. Either coerced or freely, they don’t care, morality is you do it or you don’t, for them.”

 

“Who the hell would want to bone a king?” Amyot mutters.Then he goes a slightly off shade, and checks to see if Anne’s around. “Anyway. Word is we’ll need to offer three gifts.”

 

“That sounds about right, threes is usual. I don’t know if what we offer in negotiations is part of that, or separate,” Aramis says. 

 

“Separate?” Athos guesses. 

 

“Far as I’ve heard it, separate,” Amyot agrees. “Stories would be good. The spell will get us in, then we offer the gifts, then we negotiate for you to be official liaison again. With favours owed, so you’re in a better position.”

 

“No favours are owed,” Athos says.  

 

“They will be, if negotiations go well. You can negotiate for favours, apparently,” Amyot says. “That was from an iffy source, though. Porthos might want to go talk to her, instead. Get it more concrete.”

 

“I’m not talking to Tinny,” Porthos says. “Athos, gin.”

 

“I don’t have any, you finished it last week,” Athos says. 

 

“Gin. You have gin. Cards, Boo,” Porthos says. 

 

“Don’t call me Boo, what the hell?” Athos says. 

 

“He’s got gin,” Porthos says, rolling his eyes around at them all. 

 

Athos does indeed have gin, and they break the game up after that, because Amyot has to get back to work, and Porthos has reports about what he’s been doing this morning, which Athos has to read and sign off, and Aramis and d’Artagnan have actions they’re supposed to be… actioning. Aramis goes to nap in the break room. 

 

~*~

 

“Thank you, Amyot,” Anne says, at the next briefing. “Let’s start focussing on building a negotiating team. We’ve got a solid bit of background and intel. 

 

“Simone needs a chat with d’Herblay,” Jeanne Bertrand says.

 

“After the meeting,” Anne says. “I need to know what he’s cleared for, before we think about negotiation teams.”

 

“He’s cleared,” Simone Pepin says. “He’ll be part of the team. I would like to be, as well.”

 

“Good. Let’s add Marguerite, we know they’ll want to meet the creator of the spell so that will give us a better position. I also have two official negotiators. Names are Christine Savoy, and Lucie de Foix, so you can do a security check if you need to.”

 

Jeanne Bertrand nods, and the meeting breaks up. Aramis waits outside for Simon Pepin and takes her up to the office. No one else is in, Porthos is at home resting and Athos is at the British Library either doing research or pretending to research and napping. Simone Pepin takes a seat and pulls out a notebook, and waits for Aramis to sit opposite her. Then she smiles at him. 

 

“Don’t worry, everything’s been cleared. This is just an informal chat to tie up loose ends. You’ll be official liaison, which will include liaising with the Supernatural Relations Department, which I am attached to. I’ll be your point of contact there. Because of the nature of the job, there are just a few things to clear up. We’re going to need an official name from your mother, and also personal details of your second step mother.”

 

“My mother is Jaquie, Jacqueline. I didn’t ever know her maiden name, she used d’Herblay when I was living with her. She also went by Candice l’amor-” Aramis stops, taking a deep breath. “She gave me the best life she could, ok? Candice protected her real identity, my identity, from clients. I think there were other names, too.”

 

“That’s fine, we can find her maiden name from the information you’ve given us. Your stepmother?”

 

Aramis copies her details from his phone, and the other information Simone Pepin wants. Most of it is just names and addresses for family. It makes Aramis uncomfortable to give over so much personal information, but he was prepared for this. Threat assessments and official Whitehall liaison kind of suggested he might be in for rigorous checks. Pepin also confirms details of his school, age of manifestation, and times when he was living out of the country, holidays abroad, and passport information. By the time she’s done he feels like he’s been stripped naked.

 

“Thank you for that,” she says, shutting her notebook and giving him another smile. “I know it’s not comfortable. I’ve had the same scrutiny.”

 

“I understand,” Aramis says, a little stiffly. 

 

“I’ll add this to the database, and it’ll get processed. It’s a bit slow, it’ll probably take a couple of weeks. But after that, you’ll have access to SRD resources. You’ll get a login for the database, and a clearance level, and a card which will allow you entry into SRD libraries and buildings, to the level of your clearance. It will also get you a discount at Pret, because the head of SRD did an outreach people-pleasing thing to try and boost efficiency by boosting worker morale or something. In the same vein, it gives you a discount on honey from several stores, since people were complaining about not being able to expense honey. You get a list of benefits with the card.”

 

“Great,” Aramis says, head a little light from information overload.

 

They’re interrupted by Porthos coming in with cake and coffee. He frowns at Simon Pepin, then down at his two coffees and two slices of cake, then up at Simon Pepin. Then he gives a welcoming smile and comes over to the desk they’re using (Athos'), setting down his things, holding up a knife. 

 

“We can cut the cake up. Afraid I can’t make the coffees multiply, but we can nick Athos' and get you a fancy one from the breakroom,” Porthos says, already cutting the two cakes each into three equal pieces. Simon Pepin makes noises about leaving, but Porthos gives her cake and sits and flips open a folder, and she stays.  “Aramis told me you lot were interested. I knew you were here, too, Simone. I peeked at the BRIC stuff on the system, with Aramis' login. I would’ve brought you lemon cake, had I know you were here here, but the system didn’t say that.”

 

“Yes,” Simon Pepin says, a little dryly. “We are aware of the Musketeers inability to keep things secure from one another. I’ve cleared all four of you. Which means the check is taking longer, and means that your paperwork, d’Herblay, will be more like three weeks clearing.”

 

“Good good,” Porthos says. “Shouldn’t really take long, Athos and I already have various clearance and checks and government things, and I worked with you at SRD, that’ll make things quick, no? Don’t suppose you guys are at all interested in an uptick in ghostly sex work, and a disturbing new trend in coercion?”

 

“No,” Simone Pepin says. “This is good cake.”

 

“Our canteen does them homemade,” Porthos says, smiling as if she’s complimented him personally. “That carrot one is my favourite.”

 

“This week,” Aramis says. “He has a new favourite every week. Every day, sometimes.”

 

“Thank you for your hospitality. I’ll see you for the next briefing, Aramis,” Pepin says, getting to her feet. “You too, Vallon. We’re on a negotiations team, now, so you’ll be involved, won’t you?”

 

“Nope,” Porthos says. “Not unless the Superintendent just hasn’t asked me yet. I think I’m a liability right now, I keep on getting time in a muddle.”

 

“I’ll see you around, then,” Pepin says, stepping out of the office. 

 

“Could just pay them off with the waste- time,” Porthos says. “They’d like that. Hypothetical future-time.”

 

“I’ll suggest it as a gift,” Aramis says, yawning. 

 

“No napping, we’ve got a case, and seeing as Athos is out, it’s you and me.”

 

The case, it turns out, is a false alarm. A family who think they have goblins living in the cellar which turn out to be slightly oversize rats. Aramis enjoys watching Porthos shuffling warily around the low-ceilinged room, shining a torch, and then leaping out of his skin and shrieking whenever a rat skitters through the beam of light. Porthos eventually decides there are just rats and no goblins, and scarpers. Aramis checks properly, unafraid of rats, and then informs the family. He gives them the number for the council, who can deal with the rats, and then heads for the car, grinning, highly amused. Porthos is sat in the driver’s seat brushing himself off. He shudders when Aramis climbs in. 

 

“I hate rats,” he mutters, starting the engine. 

 

“Noticed,” Aramis says, laughing as he hastily buckles himself in and grabs the oh-shit-handle. 

 

Porthos tears away with a purposeful jerk that sends Aramis into the window, which just makes him laugh harder. When they stop at the lights, Aramis sneaks a hand over and scuttles it up Porthos' back, which almost gets them into an accident because Porthos yells and tries to run away by putting his foot down, wriggling and squirming in his seat. They shoot across the junction, luckily just as the light turns orange. Porthos flings Aramis into the window again in retaliation when he realises what Aramis just did. He’s very grouchy by the time they reach the station, and won’t take his eyes off Aramis' hands. Which means he walks slap-bang into Marguerite, who’s stood in their office talking to Athos.

 

“Will they be back- ahh!” She says.

 

Porthos steadies her, still watching Aramis through narrowed eyes. Athos makes a questioning sound, though, which draws Porthos' attention, and Aramis takes the chance to slip behind Porthos toward his desk, brushing a hand over Porthos' back as he goes. Porthos leaps away from Marguerite and starts wriggling again, twisting to try and check his back, tugging his shirt and vest out of his trousers and shaking them. 

 

“There’s rats in my clothes,” Porthos says, voice high, and Aramis laughs, sprawling in his desk chair, enjoying himself immensely. 

 

“For heaven’s sake, Porthos, it was just Aramis,” Athos says, exasperated. 

 

He gets up and goes to Porthos, checking his clothes for him with a roll of the eyes. Porthos stills under Athos' hands, then shudders, glowers at Aramis, and tucks himself in, setting himself to rights. He sits at his own desk. 

 

“Know any good curses for friends who are arseholes, Grit?” Porthos asks, kicking his guest chair out. “Have a seat. Teach me things to make him pay.”

 

“Very tempting,” Marguerite says, taking the chair. “But I’m busy. I’ve got to complete this spell so we can get moving on this thing. I have all the components, but I can’t fit it together right. I thought you might take a look, see if you can find the cracks.”

 

“‘Mis can do it,” Porthos says, waving her away. 

 

“I can’t,” Aramis says, surprised. He’s not the one who can analyse things just by shutting his eyes. 

 

“Yeah you can,” Porthos says, imitating Athos' exasperated tone and eye-roll. “You just don’t. You can heal people, just look for the same kind of discrepancies in the spell.”

 

“It’s not the same,” Aramis says. 

 

“Yeah, well, you can find the emotiony crap, too, and do a comparison. Grit can give you the shape, and you look for that in the spell and find where it’s wrong. Find d’Art if you need help focussing. I’m busy,” Porthos says. “Your case, your job.”

 

“You are not busy,” Aramis says. Porthos gives him a huge, beaming smile, and holds up a file. He mouths ‘rats’ and smiles wider. Aramis sighs. He supposes he does kind of deserve it.

 

“I’d prefer you,” Marguerite says, face tight. 

 

“You gotta work with him,” Porthos says. “Now go away, both of you. Stop bothering me with your personal shite.”

 

Athos and Aramis both look up at the irritation in Porthos' tone. He’s rarely impatient with Marguerite, and has so far tended toward her ‘side’ in the Aramis/Marguerite drama. Athos meets Aramis' eyes and shrugs. 

 

“I took this case next week,” Porthos mutters, looking at the file. “Already did this one.”

 

“Your back to front,” Athos says. 

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “Ok. Well, that’s useful. Already know the answer, eh?”

 

“Can you actually remember any details?” Athos asks, interested, pulling out a notebook.

 

“Nah, still just the dejavuish,” Porthos says, discarding the file. “I can’t be bothered with this, I’ll skip it this time around. Oh, that’s weird. Cool.I can feel that dejavuish becoming hypothetical, instead of certain. Something that might have happened not something that did. Whee.”

 

“Is it similar to, or different than, the one last week?” Athos asks, flicking back a page. 

 

“Let’s leave them to their science experiment,” Aramis says, getting up. “They can be at this for hours.”

 

Marguerite tears herself away from her fascinated scrutiny of Porthos and nods, leading him down to the MU. They’re silent on the way down, but there feels to be less tension between them than usual. Aramis never noticed Marguerite, until he noticed her to sleep with, but when they were sleeping together they’d been almost friends about it all. He hadn’t even considered salvaging that, after the disaster of the ending, but he considers it now. Marguerite might be uncertain, a little shy, and very annoying, but she’s also, he remembers, good company.

 

“Hang on,” Aramis says, before Marguerite can go into MU. 

 

“What?” she asks, short but not as irritable as usual. 

 

“I just, I never really apologized to you. Not when I really meant it. It never occurred to me that it might mean more to you, and I never even thought about how it might affect you. I just used you. When I realised it had been more to you, I panicked. I should have ended it sooner, and been kinder. I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

 

“That has been a long time due,” Marguerite says. “Shall we?”

 

Aramis shrugs, and nods, and they head through the double doors. It’s quiet today, no explosions or people floating or giant whales ‘swimming’ in the air. Constance is pretty much the only person there, sitting in her corner with d’Artagnan, both with tea. Marguerite heads to her own work space, but Aramis goes over to say hi to Connie and d’Art.

 

“Where’s Ninon? She’s been lax with you, recently,” Aramis says, hitting d’Art’s shoulder affectionately. 

 

“Ow,” d’Art whines, pouting up at Aramis, then he grins. “She’s getting a telling off from our lieutenant. Didn’t call for backup, when we should have. A bad example to little impressionable moi.”

 

“I adore how happy you get about people being in trouble,” Aramis says, kissing d’Art’s hair. “You’re a man after my own heart.”

 

“Go away, Aramis,” Constance says, shaking her head at him. She’s smiling, though.

 

“Aramis, are you helping or gossiping?” Marguerite calls. 

 

“Gossiping,” Aramis calls back. “I’m getting us help, it’ll be better. Come on, d’Art. Help me do some weird thing Porthos tells me I can do that I’ve never done before?”

 

“Can I take notes?” d’Art asks, draining his tea cup. 

 

“If you like,” Aramis says. 

 

“Try the new app, and record it too,” Constance says. “I’ll get this stuff finished up, then we can have another tea-break when you’re done.”

 

“Lovely,” Aramis says, clapping his hands. 

 

They walk across to Marguerite’s table arm in arm, grinning. She looks long-suffering and sighs out heavily through her nose, but she doesn’t say anything. It turns out that what Porthos described is not at all what happens. Marguerite thinks about her spell, and Aramis can feel around her emotions. He’s not as good as Athos at this, Athos has described what it’s like to find the shape of things. Aramis can’t do that. He just gets vague, blobby colours, like runny watercolour pictures, spreading paint on wet paper, fading and brightening, and music. The music is more clear, but seems disconnected. He tries to find a shape, but then d’Artagnan touches him, and the colours brighten, the edges fading, all merging together, and the music matches the piano and flutey thing that’s d’Artagnan’s. It’s like a whole painting, entire, shapeless, blending and brightening and beautiful. No shapes, though, and no music. He shrugs, opening his eyes, and pats d’Artagnan’s hand. 

 

“You have a scar on your hip, Marguerite,” he says. “I never noticed that. It’s like a violin. I can fix it if you like.”

 

“Really?” Marguerite says. “It’s not even there any more, d’Herblay. It faded years ago. Jesus, that’s much deeper than you used to go.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says, startled. He’d thought it was still kind of vague, all shapeless and useless. “Um, do you want it gone completely? I think you’re just very healthy at the moment, can’t find anything to fix.”

 

“Go ahead,” Marguerite says, looking intrigued. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to tell. Record it, d’Artagnan, see if we can see any physical change in the charges.”

 

Aramis finds the violin, and there’s a blue splodge in the painting, and breathes out, watching the paint seep into the paper, the violin easing and quickening until it’s the music drawing the colour out, fading it to white, violin softening and deepening to match the rest of Marguerite’s body. He frowns. He found the scar, maybe… he reaches out to feel the colours, the paper, the wet and dry and damp, brushing his fingers over,dipping them in the paint to get the taste, looking for the music of it, the clashes of sound easing and clarifying with the colours and taste and feel, curling the paint up to lick his fingers, tugging at the smell of it until it fills his nostrils. He finds the spell in the bright fading patch at the edge, a mess of colour and light, mutable, moving, water on the paper seeping in and swirling and oozing, a cello and a drum and a piccolo weaving in and out, and with the music comes some sort of control. He’s not controlling things, but the music manipulates the colours and movement, the water, and he can follow the music and see the patterns and shapes and make sense of things. It’s beautiful and terrible. He opens his eyes. 

 

“Got the scar, got the spell,” Aramis says. “No butterflies, though.”

 

“That’s what Athos sees when he does emotiony thingies,” d’Art explains. 

 

“It’ll be different, it’s just visualisation, a tool to focus. Sort of like a conduit,” Marguerite says.She pulls up her jumper and shirt, and examines her hip. “I’m pretty sure it’s gone. Upload that recording to my computer would you, d’Artagnan? I want to take a look at the data. Later, though, let’s see about this spell.”

 

She has it in three glass boxes, contained. She opens them one by one, casting a shield in a bubble around them as she does it, and holds her hands about a foot apart over the book, the tangerine, and the bowl of cloves. Aramis reaches out, but d’Artagnan catches his hand and makes an incredulous face at him. d’Art spends lots of time down here, so Aramis takes the suggestion not to touch and sticks his hands in his pockets, looking instead. There’s the smell of burning, and it feels like all the hairs on his body are standing up. The air between Marguerite’s hands sparks. 

 

“Can’t keep this for long, there’s too much tension between them,” Marguerite says. 

 

Aramis shuts his eyes and d’Art sets a hand on his shoulder, then curls it around the back of his neck when he shifts. There’s colour everywhere, bleeding off the paper into the air around them. It’s becoming the music in the air, he can hear the colours and see the notes, it’s disconcerting but kind of awesome too. It’s like his senses are merging to see the whole thing. Aramis finds the image from Marguerite and compares it to the spell. The spell is in the air, and doesn’t look at all like the image on paper, but it feels the same when he dips his fingers in the paint. It’s the right colours, the right texture, the right brightness and intensity. Aramis listens to it and enjoys the harmony, pinpoints the places the colours are parsing away from the notes, the places the instruments aren’t following. It’s the right feeling, the right smell. No, there’s too much ash, too much of Charon’s old shop. And the colours, the paint, it’s not moving the way it did on the paper, and it moves ahead of the sound, out of sync, coalescing wrong. Then it disperses, all of a sudden, and Aramis opens his eyes in time to watch the explosion. It’s like a rough wind, and Marguerite is muttering, closing the glass boxes back around the components, until the wind dies. She lets the bubble fall, and everyone looks at Aramis.

 

“Am I meant to be able to articulate the differences?” Aramis says. “I have no idea what anything is.”

 

“Describe the visualization,” Marguerite says, distractedly, pulling paper toward her and taking notes. Aramis does as he’s told, watching her pen scrawl over the lines of the paper, and remembers this, too. Her so distracted by a project he barely exists. He hadn’t minded, he’d just enjoyed the chance to watch her, her body. He feels a little ashamed of that, now. Of how he hadn’t cared enough to want her attention. Marguerite looks up. 

 

“Are you done? Good, ok. I think the smell, too much ash? I think I’ll try reducing the intensity of the spell around the book. You’re very sensual, Aramis. This is useful. Porthos is easier, he just gives me the visualisation and senses and lets me do the interpretation. This is good though, I’m sure it’s not better.”

 

“I’m better than Porthos?” Aramis asks. 

 

“He gets so bored, and just shoves stuff at me. You’re more patient and willing to go over things. Not better,” Marguerite says, exasperation creeping in. It fades quickly. “Anyway. The mutability thing is different, you say it’s the paint that moves? That’ll be vision, I think the visual component is the cloves. They’re an uncontrollable conduit, but the spell is manipulatable, which you’re doing with the music? Which must be the emotive aspect, your ability is emotive and the music is the strongest component. I’m not sure.. I think it’s how they click together. Okay, I have a few ideas. Let’s try this again.”

 

Aramis sympathises with Porthos' boredom, after half an hour of Marguerite fiddling with the spell and making him check it over and over, finding the cracks. He starts trying to heal it, as he connects with it, which Marguerite gets snippy about. He can’t help it, though. Finally, after two hours, the spell matches the one on the paper. It’s a fantastic feeling, as the air moves and the colours blend and seep and ooze, the music creating depths and shapes, making things match, twisting and cascading and building and then softer, pianissimo, pianissimo possible, then building again, the colours swirling after it, brighter, oozing air, all coalescing and peeling apart and coalescing again. It makes Aramis kind of dopey, and he has to lie on the floor under Constance’s table while she and d’Artagnan have tea. Marguerite is busy completing the spell and reports and going over the data d’Artagnan recorded, comparing her and d’Artagnan’s notes. 

 

“Such a nerd,” Aramis says, feeling the texture of the floor under his fingers, grinning. 

 

“I told you it was possible for you to do it,” Porthos' voice comes. Aramis opens his eyes and sees Porthos' face right there, peering at him. Porthos smiles, and Aramis pats his cheek, making the smile go wider. “You’re magic-high. It’s good, isn’t it?”

 

“Lovely,” Aramis says, meaning Porthos' face. “You have lovely dimples.”

 

“Thank you very much. Come on, darling, Constance says I’m to haul you back to our office. You can nap on the window seat.”

 

“Is that cat there?” Aramis asks, scowling. Porthos gives him an innocent look and Aramis, because he hasn’t been high like this in years, falls for it. 

 

He ends up snoozing underneath the heavy warm weight of Marmalade. Somehow, in this state, the cat’s not so bad. It’s so soft and warm. Aramis threads his fingers into the fur and purrs at it until he falls asleep. 

 

~*~

 

Aramis takes the spell to Pin, along with a couple of jars of honey. He does it on his own, sitting on the side of the Thames in a park, cross-legged, waiting patiently. He can call the fairies, but it’s better to be patient. They’ll know he’s here, with this spell. It’s contained, but to keep it in, not to keep it from affecting the air around him. Its charges are turning everything to watercolour paints around him. It’s nice, but a bit trippy. He’s eating an apple and humming when, after an hour, Pin shows. Alone, irritation breaking the colours. 

 

“What have you done now, Loving?” Pin asks. 

 

“Nothing,” Aramis says, grinning. “Made you a present.”

 

“You haven’t the skill for this,” Pin says, finger-like tendrils feeling curiously over the box. “Who made this?”

 

“You get to find out, and meet them, but only if the council agrees to listen to our petition,” Aramis says, hand staying over the box to keep Pin from taking it. He’s got on Athos' old knuckle dusters, which are made of copper. The fairies don’t like some metals, ones which erode in the water and pollute. “You haven’t got the power to convene the council, just as I haven’t the skill to make this. You call yours, and you’ll get to meet mine.”

 

“Mabh doesn’t like you right now,” Pin says. 

 

“Mm.”

 

Pin vanishes, taking the watery crackling air with them. The spell drips all over Aramis' shoulders, setting him laughing, colours shifting and weaving the air around him. He calls Porthos, because as wonderful as it is being this high, it’s hardly conducive. 

 

“Grit says you use your senses to ‘see’ your power,” Porthos says, around a mouthful of something. “You agree with that, or think she’s knocking on the wrong tree?”

 

“Yep, sounds yep,” Aramis says, popping the ‘p’ of that, then doing it again, saying it over and over to make his lips vibrate and his mouth feel good. It makes the colours in the air shift. 

 

“Yeah, stop doing that, it isn’t gonna help,” Porthos says. “‘Kay, try this. Lie down on your back and shut your eyes, I’m gonna… haven’t tried this before. Hmm. Okay, where are you?”

 

Aramis describes his location, and the air stirs around him, tickling. He giggles, and Porthos snorts over the phone, as if it tickles him too. Then there’s something more sure, more firm, painting the colours into new beautiful familiar depths and brightnesses, dispersing the spell and leaving a deep, deep blue calm that says ‘Porthos’ in every little tone and variation of it. Aramis smiles, and takes a deep breath of it. 

 

“Wow,” Aramis says. “That’s pretty cool, darling.”

 

“Isn’t it?” Porthos says, sounding pleased. “I used your phone to triangulate your location, and Google Maps to visualize it, and I found you! How awesome is that? I think d’Artagnan’s at the pub, by the way, that’s really weird. Um, also, wow,  _ wow _ . Hell, Aramis. Is that them? Jesus. That is… I’m gonna hang up because… ha. Ok. Bye.”

 

Aramis opens his eyes, and blinks. He’s underwater. He hadn’t noticed that. Porthos is gone, so Aramis sits up. He’s suddenly, shockingly, face to face (for want of a better phrase) with Mabh. Not only Mabh, but Catkin and Pin as well, and the Gancanagh. 

 

“No Sunshine,” the Gancanagh says, cracking the air as far as Aramis can feel, reaching out in little cracks and creaks, searching. “No, gone. Tell her I was looking, she should bring me his heart again, I like it. It tastes like honey.”

 

“Right, yes, I’ll tell Sunshine,” Aramis says, and watches the Gancanagh disintegrate into their cracks, laughing the air. “Will the spell suffice to allow us before the court?”

 

“Not you,” Catkin says. “The others, yes. How many?”

 

“Five, plus myself,” Aramis says. 

 

“That will suffice. Not for you, though,” Catkin says, pleased. 

 

“One of the five is the creator,” Aramis says, equally smug. 

 

“It is done,” Mabh says. “It suffices, Catkin. The court is called. Four days, you will find your way. The others must follow, it isn’t our part to ensure your entry so they must follow. Payment must be made at the court, and then we will hear you.”

 

Aramis inclines his head, and lifts his copper-covered hand. 

 

“What is that you have? Why are you keeping ancient weapons against us?” Catkin asks, wrapping around Aramis' hand, around his knuckles. 

 

“A family heirloom. It’s Path’s,” Aramis says. “Comes in useful.”

 

“It would be that’s,” Catkin says, anger fermenting the colours of the spell. 

 

“You can negotiate for it, if you like. At court,” Aramis says. 

 

It will buy them a favour or two. It was Athos' idea to bring it, to give them something to think about. It seems to have been a good idea. So long as Catkin doesn’t try to hurt Aramis for having it, before they leave. Luckily, Mabh is in a good mood and the water ripples around them with that, and Catkin turns, taking Mabh and the water with them. Aramis is left wet, as always. They could just as easily leave him dry, but they never afford him that consideration. He squelches back to the station to report to Anne and update the BRIC database. Anne will inform the negotiating team and come up with a plan to make sure Aramis doesn’t slip away, at the time. Which is how the fairies will try to do it, it would give them an advantage for Armais to show up alone. 

 

When he gets back to the office, there’s no one there. He feels a little affronted that no one’s waited for him, to hear how it went. There’s a message from Athos on his phone, though, telling him to come up to the disused office on the third floor that they sometimes use as a Musketeers incident room. He finds Porthos sitting on the floor, back against a wall, head tilted to one side. Athos is sat at a desk, watching him. He glances at Aramis when he comes in, but that’s it. 

 

“Shut the door,” Porthos says. 

 

“What’s up?” Aramis asks, closing the door at his back. 

 

“fairy time,” Athos says. “He’s trying to make sense of it. Over the phone, he felt it. Or something, I don’t know, he’s not very communicative. It’s quieter up here, less time apparently.”

 

“Used less, less hypothetical time, less potential possibilities stringing out, alternative actions and consequences and…” Porthos trails off, reaching up to run his fingers through the air. “Hmm. I’m glad we didn’t do  _ that _ , then. Poor Athos.”

 

“What?” Aramis says. “What happened to Athos?”

 

“No head,” Porthos says. “We held off, though. Long time ago, I think.”

 

“Can we make it stop?” Athos asks. “You’re losing it, Porthos.”

 

“Oi,” Porthos says, affronted. “I’m perfectly sane. I might not have been, if… there we go. Hmm, no, that one isn’t so good either. No Athos there, either. Athos, stop it.”

 

“Sorry,” Athos says. “Aramis, come calm me down. It’s better if I’m happy, better hypothetical time, I dunno.”

 

Aramis sits on the desk and rests his hand on Athos' head. He’s not good at emotions, but he is good at Athos, and his new painting thing is fun. He drips green into Athos' hair, smudging it, then diffuses him golden. Athos giggles, squirming, and Aramis laughs. Porthos sighs contentedly. 

 

“You have very cute children, Ath,” Porthos says. “Ok. What do I do to stop it, then?”

 

“No idea,” Athos says. 

 

“When I did a rotation on the - um, with seers,” Aramis says, changing his mind about saying ‘psych ward’. “When I did that, they had a few techniques. Want to try the one I remember? I think I remember two actually.”

 

“Okay,” Porthos says. “You’re a good doctor, but not very happy, better as a cop.”

 

“You’re good at controlling your body, right?” Aramis says. “This one is to do with that,so let’s start here. Put your hand on your knee, palm up. That’s right. Clench it tight into a fist. Ok, keep it like that. In a minute I’m going to ask you to open it very slowly, thinking about how each muscle works to let go. First though, you’re going to think about your fingers, how they’re pressed tight together, all knitted and tangled.”

 

Porthos hums in agreement, and Aramis describes some more how close and enmeshed they are, then has Porthos let go the fist very slowly, easing his fingers away from each other, focussing on his body. They do that twice with each hand. 

 

“What’s it meant to do?” Porthos asks. 

 

“What has it done, by tomorrow?” Aramis asks. 

 

“No idea,” Porthos says. “Can’t remember anything.”

 

“Good. Don’t try to,” Aramis says. “Get to your feet and hold your arms out from your body, splay your fingers. Then concentrate on how you can move.”

 

Porthos does it, tentatively at first, then shifting and stretching, eyes losing the glazed, far off look. Aramis smiles at him and pats Athos' head, much to Athos' annoyance. 

 

“Huh,” Porthos says. “Cool. Gotta remember that one. Like a conduit, right?”

 

“I think so, I think it’s about untangling things that are enmeshed,” Aramis says. “Visualization, but with the added component of… I don’t know how seers manipulate time, because it’s not time traveling, and there’s nothing physical about the way things travel, but the research says, or did last time I looked into it, that the connection between time and the seer’s mind is embodied and physical, even if the manipulation isn’t.”

 

“I love fairy time,” Porthos says, looking at Athos, very serious all of a sudden. “I almost stayed, you know. When they took Aramis. Such wonderfully mathematic time, there. It’s got the perfection of an equation that just connects and clicks each step until you get to the solution and the entire thing just sings.”

 

“I’m glad you didn’t run away to Avalon, leaving Aramis to become a doctor and me to have bags of kids,” Athos says, dry and cross but also sad. Aramis shakes himself and shakes away the paint, wondering if that’s going to stick around forever, now. 

 

“Could still do it,” Porthos says, grinning. “I bet they’d have me.”

 

“To do experiments on,” Athos says. “Come on, we actually have a case.”

 

They don’t. They spend the next few days running down leads on what turns out to be a case of mistaken identity. The ‘thief’ they finally catch is just an ordinary every day thief, and not the Magpie they were expecting. A very accomplished thief who gets Porthos' admiration and Athos' respect, but not a Magpie. The Magpie remains allusive, as she has for the past three years. They only know she exists because she leaves magpie feathers after her, because she thinks she’s hilarious. It’s not even a common power, but none of the registered Magpies they’ve found have been anything but law abiding citizens. It’s extremely frustrating, and Aramis is bad tempered the day of court, grouching around the enclosure of the BRIC incident room, still just the Intelligence offices. 

 

He’s not allowed to leave, and no one else is, either. The negotiating team is all here, Simone Pepin eating and chatting with her daughter on Facetime, Christine and Lucie going over background they already know, Marguerite playing with the app on her phone that Constance has been working on for recording phenomena. Their sixth, Alexandre, is a storyteller who had several degrees and PhDs in Avalon negotiations, and is from the SRD at Whitehall. Aramis likes him, he keeps going on and on about how much he loved meeting Porthos, and how good Porthos will make stories he tells in future. He promises not to write any endings, not even to think about it before the negotiations. Aramis doesn’t know why, but doesn’t ask. He’s bored, and doesn’t want to be here, and he’s irritable. He’s snappy with Marguerite when she tries to talk to him, and she goes irritatingly quiet and shy. 

 

He decides he’s going to leave. Anne tries to stop him, but when he’s insistent she gives in with ill grace, demanding everyone goes with him, like some kind of honour guard. He stalks through the streets, his little trail of colleagues strung out behind him. He makes for the park near Porthos' house, and then the pond, walking around the edge until he gets to the knotted up tree Porthos has taken an odd and sudden dislike to. It’s a lovely tree, it makes no sense. Aramis wades into the water, holds his breath, and lets himself fall through. He can’t see the others behind him, which is excellent. He falls and falls, tumbling through golden bright soft water, bubbles of air rising around him, until he’s tipped gently out. 

 

The court is not like the Queen’s court. That had been like a coral reef, or a forest, sensation as much as vision, wind and water and air, the smell of trees, bright things. This is dark. Like somewhere deep beneath the sea. As Aramis thinks that, he feels light. He can’t see, but his mind creates images from the feelings and senses around him. They’re not his senses, because he can’t feel light, he sees it. It’s incredibly disorienting, but it does show him that the rest of the team are with him, Marguerite beside him the others in front. Mabh is there too, somewhere. It’s not like when he sees them out of Avalon, there’s nothing humanoid about them here, their shape is not physical. Instead it’s like being inside the watercolours, inside the colours. Inside sight. Or perhaps outside. 

 

“Once upon a time,” Alexandre says, stepping forwards, “On the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.

 

“As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the Château d’If, got on board the vessel between Cape Morgion and Rion island.

 

“Immediately, and according to custom, the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean were covered with spectators; it is always an event at Marseilles for a ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the Pharaon, has been built, rigged, and laden at the old Phocee docks, and belongs to an owner of the city.”

 

“Sufficient,” Elvin says. “We accept this gift.”

 

“Thank you,” Alexandre says. And begins another story. “A short time ago, while making researches in the Royal Library for my History of Louis XIV, I stumbled by chance upon Memoirs, printed--as were most of the works of that period, in which authors could not tell the truth without the risk of a residence, more or less long, in the Bastille--at Amsterdam, by Pierre Rouge. The title attracted me; I took them home with me, with the permission of the guardian, and devoured them.”

 

“We accept,” says an unnamed fairy. One of the six ‘citizens’, Aramis thinks. He doesn’t recognize them. 

 

“As a third gift,” Marguerite says, stepping forward, voice wavering. “I offer you the chance to, to, to ask questions.”

 

“Very acceptable,” Pin says, pleasure suffusing the water. 

 

That’s different from outside of Avalon, as well. Instead of cracking the air, the communicated emotion is given in return for the gift, an acceptance and a gift in return, vibrating through them, losing their physicality to the water. It’s unsettling, but pleasant. Aramis giggles, then covers his mouth to stop himself. 

 

“Court fees have been paid,” Mabh says. “The session is open.”

 

After that it’s easy. Aramis doesn’t have any part in it, except to stand there and listen. He gives over the knuckle duster when asked, and watches it crumpling into the water, feels it’s pollution, feels the sigh and unravelling as the stories knitted into it melt away. He’s glad they gave it over, feeling something deep about it all of a sudden, uncomfortable with his brief ownership of it, his wearing of it. Pin looks at him, though Aramis still can’t see he feels that he is being looked at, and he knows it’s Pin. He feels it, too, when he’s given favour. And when he’s given official license to speak on behalf of the Metropolitan Police Department. He’s a passive part of negotiations, leaving it to Simone, Lucie and Christine to offer and reject and accept. Until, that is, a gift is demanded of him in return for favour. He hadn’t expected that. He checks his pockets, and realises why he’s been asked. It isn’t part of protocol. The only thing in his pocket is the flower Porthos gave him, promising it was what the fairies want. 

 

“I have nothing,” he says, stepping forward. “I offer you something inconsequential, instead.”

 

“Yes?” Pin asks, eagerly, feeling around Aramis' pocket, the inconsequential flower in there. 

 

“The story of myself and the creator of the spell,” Aramis says. 

 

Pin’s excitement dims, then turns to curiosity. The water between Aramis and Marguerite is suddenly bright, under scrutiny from the entire Seat. Elvin laughs, and Catkin takes it without waiting. Aramis feels a small pain as the memory is twisted and shaken, examined from every angle, naked for everyone to see it. He can feel it from Marguerite, as well as himself, and it’s hot and thick and hurts. He shivers, then shrugs. 

 

“As I said, inconsequential,” he says, and the story brightens and tumbles away from him. He keeps the memory, they get the story- the highlight between him and Marguerite, the difference, fragmenting and breaking it. 

 

“Acceptable,” Mabh says. “Now hand over payment for this liaison agreement.”

 

“Ah, signatures first,” Lucie de Foix says. 

 

There’s a gust and shuddering, jerking, turning motion. Christine Savoy nods to Aramis, and he takes the rose out of his pocket. It’s taken from him, and then there’s a burst of anger so strong that they’re all torn up as if by the roots, and the water roars around them, crushing them. Simone laughs. 

 

“You signed it, to take it as is,” she says, then laughs again. “I’m going to kill Vallon.”

 

“He broke it,” Pin says, and the anger is replaced by sadness. 

 

“She was never going to give it back whole,” Elvin says, and the colours shift and mute, seeping out of the water, momentarily bright and certain and strong, then vanish. Resignation and rock and surf take over. “We accept. The bargain is complete, the agreement made.”

 

They’re tossed out of the water, and Aramis lies on the bank, soaking wet. The others are dry, which he notices with amusement. A sense of wellbeing and achievement is singing through him. He’s enjoying very much being able to see again. He blinks up, beaming at the sky, at the gnarled tree. His view is sharply obscured by a very angry Marguerite, though, and he jumps to his feet. 

 

“We did it, mission accomplished,” Aramis says, tentative in the face of her temper. She gives him an incredulous look, and when he looks to the others, they’ve already gone, slipping away through the park. Running without actually running. “Did I do something wrong?”

 

“Do you ever do something right?” Marguerite asks. “Is there ever a case where you are helpful, and useful, instead of getting in the way? You are hopeless, and completely without use. You couldn’t have foreseen that they’d want to take, couldn’t have brought a gift like the rest of us? We all have pockets full of things to give, and you. You bring nothing. No one mentioned it because this is supposed to be the only thing you’re good at. But we should have known it was overplayed, that you really were no use here, either.”

 

“What?” Aramis says, throat dry, all his good feeling fleeing. 

 

Marguerite’s words aren’t things he’s never considered. He doesn’t do enough, doesn’t care, isn’t any good. Not like Athos and Porthos. Even his power is weak and pathetic next to theirs, and now d’Artagnan. He’s so good and kind and skilled, and here’s Aramis. 

 

“You gave them that,” Marguerite says. “You showed everyone.”

 

“I… sorry,” Aramis says. 

 

“You only just got done apologizing for the last time you fucked everything up,” Marguerite snaps. “No, Aramis, you are no good, and there’s nothing good in you, and there’s nothing except a useless, unworthy, pathetic little-”

 

Aramis' phone rings, cutting her off. He picks it up, numb, mind spinning. Athos' words just throw him in deeper, and he runs, not looking back at Marguerite, or the pond, of the scene of his latest mistake. 

 

~*~

“He’s exhausted,” Athos says, when he lets Aramis into the town house. “About four hours ago, we were in the garden, and he just sort of crumpled up and started shivering.”

 

Aramis follows him upstairs to their bedroom, both of them rushing. Porthos is huddled under a mound of blankets, mouthing around random sounds, eyes wide. He’s still shaking, from the looks of the hand that’s sticking out resting on a pillow. His head’s turned into the same pillow, cheek squished. Athos sits beside him and grips his shoulder, and Porthos turns his head. 

 

“Shiny, shiny. Mm, it’s beautiful,” Porthos mutters, smiling lopsidedly. 

 

“He sounds like when he just got back with you,” Athos says, turning worried eyes on Aramis. “What did you do?”

 

“Absolutely nothing,” Aramis says. “I gave them exactly what he gave me.”

 

“What with me?” Porthos says. “With me? Aramis. With Aramis. So so shiny.”

 

“Yeah, love,” Athos says, brushing his knuckles over Porthos' cheek. “Shh. I’m here.”

 

“See it? See it?” Porthos asks, struggling with the covers. Athos helps him pull them away, and he holds up a hand, fingers closed carefully, as if caging a butterfly. “This one, this one, this one. See?”

 

Athos closes his hand gently around the cage of Porthos' fingers and shuts his eyes, a thrum of energy passing between them. Aramis can kind of feel what Porthos is showing Athos, but not really. It’s a new thing, since d’Artagnan, this control Porthos has to share with just one person. He says he just codes the emotion to click with them instead of being universal. Which makes zero sense to Aramis. 

 

“Oh, I’ve seen this one before. This is what you took from the fairies?” Athos says. “Its wings are… wow.”

 

“Mm,” Porthos says. “Still got the ‘flies?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Silver bits, eh?”

 

“Oh,” Athos says again, breathless. “That is shiny. That’s incredibly beautiful. And frightening, Porthos what’s that? Stop it!”

 

Athos cries out, and his hand tightens around Porthos', his eyes flying open, breathing hard. Porthos tugs his caged fingers away and tucks it carefully back in the covers. 

 

“Keeping it,” Porthos says. 

 

“I crushed it,” Athos says. 

 

“It’s mine,” Porthos says. 

 

“You gave it back to them, though,” Aramis says. Porthos smiles, slow and sly, and shakes his head. 

 

“Keeping it,” Porthos says, laughing. “Charlie helped me keep it. Made them another, won’t know the difference. They can’t take  _ me _ apart, but I can know  _ their _ things. Never know.”

 

“Lord,” Aramis says, shaking his head. “Athos.”

 

“I think he kept it,” Athos says, staring at Porthos. “What is it, Porthos? Why did you take something so terrible?”

 

“They shouldn’t have made it,” Porthos says, turning to Athos, laughter dying, going sad and small and curled around himself. “They cheated.”

 

“It’s one of their stories?” Athos asks. 

 

“They took everything,” Porthos says, quiet now. He wraps his shaking hand around the caged one, over the duvet, and rests his forehead against them. “They gave me him back, let me think I’d won, then showed me this. Took it all away again, all of it, all of me.”

 

“What is it?” Aramis says. 

 

“They’re all stories,” Porthos says. “I read everything, growing up. Anything at all I got my hands on. I know stories, I can negotiate those. I went, and there you were, Lancelot of the lake, my brother. I told them the story, and they gave you back, but then they made this. When they know you, they can make you. A copy, a piece, just a little. Just enough. They made you Lancelot, and Lancelot dies.”

 

“It’s just a story,” Aramis says, voice a little hoarse, caught up in Porthos' grief of his death, which has never happened. 

 

“Oh no. The endings are always real. They make the endings real, for fun. They made your death, showed it to me, made me see it. They like time, and it doesn’t really exist in stories, but in myth it’s sort of endless. They make the time and make you and put you in there, and made your death, and you die so young. He died so, so young, Athos. I couldn’t let them keep it. I couldn’t let them. I brought it away with me, and I don’t remember what I did to Avalon, but I won. And now they’ll never get it back. Tol’ ‘mis I gave it t’th Gobles, but they jus’ wan’ed couple of mem’ries. Didn’t need ‘em. Tried t’take Charon, though. Stopped that. Stealin’, not agreed.”

 

“You didn’t give it to the goblins? You didn’t mangle it?” Aramis says. 

 

“It’s gone,” Porthos says, curling into Athos. “Gone now. Gone past, s’not done, he didn’ die and now he’s too old and Lancelot is just Lancelot, and this is just a story. No ending anymore.”

 

“Oh Porthos,” Aramis whispers. “Shit.”

 

“Took their time, didn’t I?” Porthos says. “I took all their mythical time, and their Lancelot, and I’ve got it to keep in  _ my _ heart. They tried to take Aramis, my Aramis, my heart. Tried to take my heart out, Athos. I wanted to keep it. He couldn’t die like that, oh God not like that.”

 

“No,” Athos says. “He couldn’t. He didn’t. You did beautifully, my love. Couldn’t you have given what you promised, though? Why make a copy? How can you even make a copy?”

 

“Just a myth, now,” Porthos says, shrugging one shoulder, head against Athos' hip. “Easy to make those, with Charlie t’help. They like him, put plenty of stuff in him for me to use, then gave him back, so he can focus me, make me better. We did a good one.”

 

“Will they ever work it out?” Aramis asks. 

 

“They won’t even look. It’s just a  _ myth _ , it’s the same as the others, none of their extra beautiful time. It’s so lovely, time, seeing it, and Aramis' Lancelot was the most beautiful. I would have let them have it, for its beauty, if they hadn’t written his ending,” Porthos says. “Athos. Athos.”

 

“I’m right here, shh. I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Athos murmurs, bending close, wrapping his hands around Porthos'. “Shh. I won’t crush it, just… shhh. There you go. You hang onto this one instead, hmm? Shhh.”

 

Porthos sighs, relaxing into the bed, and falls asleep. Athos gets up and comes over to Aramis and they stare at each other. Athos shakes himself and jerks his head toward Porthos, and Aramis remembers to go and check him over, which is what he was supposed to be doing anyway. 

 

“He’s just exhausted himself,” Aramis says. “Athos, did you hear?”

 

“Yes,” Athos says, wonderingly. “I can’t believe he kept it.”

 

“He watched my death, and kept it,” Aramis says. “He couldn’t bare to have anyone take the version with my death.”

 

“No,” Athos says. 

 

“Why not? What am I?” Aramis says, shaking a little himself, looking up at Athos. Marguerite’s words are ringing in his ears, and his eyes sting. “Why not let me die? What do I ever do, except cause trouble and get in the way? I know  _ nothing _ , and I contribute nothing! All I do is sleep in the break room and, and, and, the rest of you, the rest of them, everyone. Marsac, Marguerite, Charon, everyone. They hate me, and they’re right to. What good have I ever done in the world? What is the point of a person who never does a single bit of good for anyone but himself?”

 

Athos blinks, then looks around the room as if looking for something. Then he shakes his head and comes over, wrapping his hands around the back of Aramis' neck, thumbs against his jaw, turning his head up so they’re face to face and Aramis has to look into his eyes. Athos smiles gently, and Aramis can feel him, searching through until he finds the blank empty places in Aramis, the aching chasms. He wraps around them, warming them, not bothering to try and make them go away, just finding them and taking the ache away a little. Aramis lets out a sob, and tips forwards against his stomach, holding on tight. Athos holds him right back. 

 

“Better?” Athos asks, when the crying jag is over. Aramis sniffles. “Are you getting snot on me?”

 

“Yes,” Aramis says. 

 

“Marguerite doesn’t know everything about you,” Athos says, very gently. “We do. Porthos couldn’t bare for them to have any version of your death because he loves you. As do I, of course.”

 

“Yes,” Aramis says, taking a shuddering breath. “But why? Why bother?”

 

“Why not?” Athos says. “That is hypothetical. I know you have a list. I’m not good at this, why am I talking to the crying person? I should wake Porthos up.”

 

“Don’t,” Aramis says.

 

“I’m not going to,” Athos says, a little affronted. “Obviously. I can do it. It doesn’t really matter why, does it?”

 

“It does.”

 

“Then… Porthos probably loves you because he thinks you’re wonderful and beautiful and you listen to him and respect him and love him a huge amount in return. Among other things. I love you because, um,” Athos stops. “Um. I love you because you’re somehow kind despite yourself. Because you’re loyal and good to us. To me. I love you because you’ve been my friend, and loved me. So many reasons, Aramis. There are so many reasons. Charon only dislikes you because he loved Porthos, and when you first met Porthos, you insulted him by laughing at him.”

 

“Oh yeah, I remember that,” Aramis says. 

 

“Marsac never hated you,” Athos says. “But he died, and what remained, his ghost, is just the part of him that resented you for not destroying your life looking for the culprit of the Savoy murders. It was a case that got to him, that is all. You let it go, that is allowed.”

 

“Sometimes it feels like that happened with us there. That we were there for that slaughter,” Aramis says. 

 

“You know that Marsac didn’t hate you. Marguerite doesn’t either, she likes you. She’s angry and hurt, though,” Athos says. 

 

“I’m gonna change my PhD,” Aramis mumbles, slumping against Athos. “I’m gonna learn how to do spells properly, and change the last chapter of my thesis, and when I get my doctorate, I’ll be a mage. Properly qualified. I’ll be able to do our spells.”

 

“If that is truly what you want. You are already an asset to the team though,” Athos says. 

 

“I know,” Aramis says. “No, I do know that. I wouldn’t have a job if I wasn’t. You might keep me around out of pity, but Anne wouldn’t.”

 

“Lie down, hmm? Porthos likes to have someone warm to wrap around,” Athos says. “It’ll warm him up.”

 

Aramis does as he’s told, and Athos settles the duvet around him, sitting on the edge of the bed again. Porthos does indeed wrap around him, face pressed into the back of Aramis' neck, cheek against his hair, snores rumbling through him. Aramis sighs, and falls asleep, tired himself. 

 

~*~

 

Aramis wakes to Porthos' arms, and rumble snores. Aramis thinks for a moment that he hasn’t fallen asleep yet, but the light’s different. He realises, too, that the rumbling isn’t snores, it’s talking. Very loud talking. And is the reason Aramis is awake. 

 

“No! Just do the - Jesus, Athos. Shirly, can’t you help him?” Porthos calls. “Aramis is asleep.”

 

“N’m not,” Aramis mumbles. “Wa’s it?”

 

“Athos is trying to make macaroni cheese,” Porthos says, laughing. “Shirl just went to help. Come on, we’d better get down before the house explodes.”

 

Aramis heaves himself out of bed with a yawn, and bumbles towards the stairs. He becomes aware, about halfway down, that Porthos is hovering, hands solicitous on Aramis as if he’s going to fall. Aramis blames his distraction on that. He doesn’t notice that Athos isn’t alone in the kitchen until they’re right in. Not just Shirley, either. Marguerite is sat at the table. She gives him a sheepish wave, and he blinks, then tries to scarper. He just walks into Porthos, though. He presses his face to Porthos' chest, scowling against the heavy muscle there. 

 

“Yeah, it’s done,” Porthos says, wrapping an arm around Aramis' shoulders. “It’s not burnt, it’s meant to be dark and crispy. That makes it yummier.”

 

“Ok,” Athos says. “I can cook, you know. I just wasn’t sure it was done, you’re very exacting about levels of done-ness in macaroni cheese.”

 

Aramis fumbles his hand into Porthos' tickle side, trying to get past him. Porthos squirms and shrieks, but just tightens his hold on Aramis. They end up falling onto the floor, Aramis underneath. All the air goes out of him, and Porthos shakes with laughter, pressing him into the wooden floor. 

 

“I just came to apologise,” Marguerite says, softly. “I don’t think my yelling was necessary. Whatever they did to take that story, it stirred up emotions. Anger. Perhaps that belongs in the past, though. You’ve been nothing but professional, working together. I wasn’t unimpressed by that, d’Herblay. You’ve grown up a little.”

 

“We all have to sometimes,” Aramis wheezes. “Porthos, get off me. I’m not going to run away.”

 

Porthos grumbles about it being comfortable, but lets Aramis up and goes to wrap himself around Athos instead, resting his head in the crook of Athos' neck, against his shoulder. 

 

“The food is cooked,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. Athos turns, cradling Porthos' face, drawing their foreheads together. 

 

Aramis and Marguerite both look away, and meet each other’s gaze by accident. Aramis sits beside her and helps himself to a mug of tea, from the pot. 

 

“I didn’t mean to give them that,” Aramis admits. “You were right, I should have foreseen. But I didn’t. When they asked, I nearly gave them the story, I mean Porthos' thingy. I couldn’t think properly, and that’s all I came up with.”

 

“Apology accepted,” Marguerite says. “Though you’re terrible at this. As we have both given our apologies, I think I’m going to head home. My girlfriend will be waiting up for me.”

 

“Your girlfriend?” Aramis asks, looking at her again out of surprised. She laughs. 

 

“I’m not pining after you, d’Herblay. I got over you a long time ago. Old feelings, remember? It brought up  _ old _ feelings. I’ve been dating Elodie for six months. She has a child, I have a step-daughter. I was angry with you for the way you treated people, not because I still had feelings for you.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says. 

 

“Dinner,” Porthos says, setting a plate in front of Aramis and sitting beside him. “You staying, Grit?”

 

“Elodie’s waiting up,” Marguerite says. 

 

“Say hello to little Marie for me, and tell her I’ll be babysitting soon,” Porthos says. “Date night’s Sunday these days, right? I get Sundays off for the moment. For resting.”

 

“You’re babysitting very soon, in that case,” Marguerite says. “See you guys Monday.”

 

Aramis eats his way through two plates of macaroni, too thoughtful to notice when Porthos refils his plate. He’d known nothing about Marguerite. When he slept with her or now. Nothing at all. He feels like he knows nothing about anyone. 

 

“We’ve got news, ‘Mis,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yeah?” Aramis says, distracted. 

 

“We’re moving,” Porthos says. “Out here. Jerry’s gonna come. That poltergeist at mine is too much for me, were gonna leave it with the flat for a while, see if it moves on. We’ll sell Athos' place. Shirl’s over the moon.”

 

“I haven’t seen her,” Aramis says, looking around. “Um, that’s brilliant?”

 

“It’s good,” Athos says, smiling, sipping a glass of wine. “That’s not all.”

 

“Nope,” Porthos says, then laughs and says it again, popping the ‘p’. “That is splendid, I’m going to do that all the time.”

 

“What else is there?” Aramis asks, nudging Porthos. 

 

“We’d like to invite you to stay here, with us,” Athos says. Then adds quickly, “We’re not asking you to sleep with us or anything.”

 

“He knows that,” Porthos says, ruffling Athos' hair. “Yeah, Aramis? Living here?”

 

“What if I fall in love and get married and have hundreds of babies?” Aramis says, just to see their reactions. Athos looks a bit horrified, but Porthos just smiles. 

 

“It’s a bit house,” Porthos says, then he laughs. “You’ll stay? Really? It’ll be like the old days. Only much bigger than that tiny shithole we used to live in. Now we just gotta work on getting Connie and d’Art here.”

 

“I told you they probably won’t,” Athos says. 

 

“We can get a house nearby, then,” Porthos says. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. You’ll stay, though, Aramis?”

 

“Why is it important to you?” Aramis asks, bewildered.

 

“Because you’re important to me,” Porthos says. “And because, well, I still get tired, and this time stuff is not going away anytime soon, and things are hard, sometimes. I want you close. I want your help.”

 

“You have it,” Aramis says. “I’ll stay. Yes.”

 

Porthos beams and him, and Athos gives him an approving nod, and proposes a toast. 

 

_ ~fin~ _

 

 

**_…_ ** _ for now _

  
  



End file.
